


Only One

by Aerlalaith



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, M/M, Trans Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 20:10:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1022886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerlalaith/pseuds/Aerlalaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ecthelion is different.  Glorfindel doesn't mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only One

**Author's Note:**

> Silmerin wanted trans!Ecthelion. So, I gave her trans!Ecthelion. A little bemused, but no regrets.

**Disclaimer:  Tolkien things are not my things.  Etc, etc.**

 

In Aman, Ecthelion had been different. 

According to Ilúvatar’s song, according to the Valar, according to the Firstborn themselves (some to a higher degree than others, naturally), elves were perfect paragons of beauty and grace.  They were perfectly proportioned.  They were perfectly kind and good.  There were no elves with crooked teeth, or large noses, or off-kilter eyes.  There were no ugly elves, there were no flawed elves, there were no—no, _Ecthelions_.

Of course, this was a steaming pile of horseshit, Ecthelion would later tell a long-suffering Galdor.  For if there were no ugly elves, or cruel elves, then what of the House of the Mole entire?  If elves were all perfectly shaped and proportioned, then what of his own sweet mother?  For he clearly—and this he showed to poor Galdor, arms outstretched to indicate—remembered her girth from his childhood.

So.  Elves could be cruel, ugly, merciless, _traitors_.  They could be fat or thin, jolly or dour, tall or short.  They could have voices to charm birds from the trees, or to shatter windows and unsuspecting eardrums.  If nothing else, Fëanor’s entire line proved that elves were not perfect.  And yet.

Ecthelion was different.

He did not look right.  He did not feel right.  He did not act right.  He rejected his mother’s dresses, for they stretched oddly over his too-broad shoulders, and bound himself tightly, for he much preferred the look of a flat chest to a curved one.  He also found that flat-chested, barefooted, wearing his father’s old clothes (too big, but at least they fit his shoulders), he received fewer taunts from other youths.  The boys did not jeer at him so, not when he proved himself their equal in strength, their equal in might.  The girls—already looking like miniatures of their mothers, which happened to be Ecthelion’s own personal nightmare—did not whisper about him so, like they had in years previous, when he had hulked among them in ill-fitting finery and awkwardly done braids.   

And it was a precarious balance, but a balance nonetheless.  Ecthelion could not say that he was truly happy, but neither did he feel as though he could complain.  He was as Eru had made him.  He dealt with it as best he could.  What else could there be?

With the rebellion against the Valar however, the balance was upset.  Ecthelion began to sense that, away from their watchful vigilance, he might, perhaps, take issues into his own hands.  And a new, quieter, personal rebellion began to take place.

Supplies on the Helcaraxë were scarce.  Ecthelion’s father, like Turgon’s wife, like so many others _(needless)_ , was lost to the ice.  Few cared when Ecthelion donned clothes more suited for an ellon.  They were his father’s after all, he would say.  It was his right to wear them.  And besides—he was cold.

And when he refused to remove them after the ice had been crossed?  Well.  People hardly seemed to notice at all.

Food was more important then.  Shelter was more important.  Avoiding being killed was _definitely_ higher up on the list than the daughter of the Fountain’s newfound (but not really) propensity for trousers.

Except Ecthelion wasn’t really the daughter of the Fountain, was he?  And truth be told, he never really had been.

His father’s sword was another issue.  Turgon offered to take it for safekeeping, possibly for one of Ecthelion’s future sons, the Lord suggested.  Ecthelion hysterically wondered how Turgon could even keep a straight face through his speech.  Certainly neither he, nor Idril, who caught eyes with him and then swiftly covered her mouth to hide her grin, could not. 

“Thank you, My Lord, I do not believe such an action to be necessary,” Ecthelion replied, once he was positive that he could do so without bursting into untimely laughter. 

Turgon protested, possibly mumbling things about marriage and daughters of noble houses, but Ecthelion pointedly raised his eyebrows, and said, voice quiet, “My Lord, I do not believe I shall marry soon.  Can you disagree with me?”

And Turgon opened his mouth, then shut it.  He looked at Ecthelion helplessly. 

“My Lord,” Ecthelion said, and bowed.  He walked away.

Idril came upon him, resting his feet in a stream running by their camp.  “I am sorry for my father’s insensitivity,” she said.  She settled herself beside him, dangling her feet as well.  For the briefest of moments, Ecthelion mourned that he had not been born with her slimness and grace.  But the feeling soon faded. 

“It is no matter,” Ecthelion replied.  He tried to be toneless, but something of his hurt—an old hurt, an old fear of being forever alone—must have bled through.

Idril put her hand on his arm.  “I would marry you,” she said, eyes twinkling. 

Ecthelion choked.  “Do not even jest at that,” he said, but could still not help snickering.  “The only thing that could be worse for your father than marrying someone like me, would be marrying a human!”

Idril wrinkled her nose.  “You are much less hairy than a human,” she pointed out. 

Ecthelion could help but agree with her on that point.

When they encountered orcs—which they did far too often—every sword was needed.  Ecthelion’s build served him well then.  He grew skilled with a blade, so much so that even the faintest protests of his fellow warriors, his former playmates and tormentors alike, faded away.  They looked on him with awe, but did not see the hours he spent late at night, practicing with an old, weighted sword to strengthen his muscles.  They did not see the blisters on his feet from running circles outside the camp to build up his wind.   They paid no noticed to the paleness of his face, or to the darkness under his eyes. 

And so it was that in their company, Ecthelion simultaneously grew stronger and frailer.  It might have continued indefinitely, but for Glorfindel.

“Eat this,” said Glorfindel, who had once slung mud at Ecthelion but had also taught him the best way to catch a fish barehanded.  He shoved a bowl of stew towards Ecthelion.  It sloshed over the sides.  Ecthelion stared at it.  “Eat,” Glorfindel repeated.

Ecthelion reached out to take the bowl.  He noticed blearily that his hands shook as he did so. 

“You have been working over-hard,” Glorfindel said, choosing to speak his mind precisely when Ecthelion had a mouth full of stew and was unable to defend himself.  “I have taken you off the watch for the next three nights.  You are to do nothing but rest until next we break camp.”

Ecthelion quickly swallowed.  “What?” he demanded.  “You can’t do that, I’ve worked harder than anybody to—”

“—It’s not a punishment, Ecthelien—” Glorfindel tried to interject. 

“It’s Ecthel _ion_ ,” Ecthelion growled, surprised at his own vehemence.

Glorfindel was surprised too, if the way his eyes widened was any indication.  His gaze flickered back to Ecthelion’s face.  “Is it then?” he queried.

Ecthelion crossed his arms self consciously, but lifted his chin.  “It is,” he said.  “That old name does not suit me.”

And Glorfindel looked at him, really looked at him.  Something peculiar showed in his expression, but in an instant it was gone.  He exhaled.  “No,” he said slowly.  “I suppose it does not.”  He rose, clapping a somewhat shocked Ecthelion on the shoulder as he did so.  “Goodnight then, Ecthelion,” he said, and headed towards his own tent.

At that name, uttered in Glorfindel’s baritone, Ecthelion felt a strange feeling surge in the pit of his stomach.  “Good night, Glorfindel,” he managed.  “And . . . and thank you.”

At his voice, Glorfindel paused.  “You’re still off watch duty for the next three days,” he called over his shoulder.  “Ecthelion.”

Devoid of any other reasonable option, Ecthelion threw his empty bowl at him.

From that day on, Ecthelion was careful not to train himself into exhaustion.  He still practiced harder than any other, but he could see Glorfindel watching him now, and feared that the other would once again remove him from his duty.

And Glorfindel was always watching him.  It was starting to get on Ecthelion’s nerves.

“Trousers suit you,” Glorfindel said in a completely inappropriate segue when they were supposed to be lifting twisted orc bodies onto a funeral pyre.  “The sword suites you.”  A beat.  “You always did look ridiculous in a dress.”

“And do I look ridiculous now?” Ecthelion demanded, covered in orc blood and sweat and dirt.

Glorfindel dropped the final body onto the pyre with little effort.  He stared at Ecthelion.  Their eyes caught and held.  “No,” he said.  And then out of nowhere, “I’m hungry.”  And he whirled around and was gone in a flash of armor and golden braids.

Ecthelion stood stock still, sputtering at the nerve of him.  After a moment though, he recalled what he had been doing, and lit the pyre.  The black smoke curled up to the sky, and Ecthelion suddenly felt a strong urge to scrub himself all over.

One evening, after the embers of the fires had died down, Glorfindel caught Ecthelion at one of his midnight runs.  He stood with his back to the river as Ecthelion quickly washed himself.  His form was lit by the light of the full moon, and Ecthelion wondered absently just what sort of fancy oils Glorfindel had been hoarding to get his hair to shine so.

“What do you feel you have to prove?” Glorfindel asked him, back still respectfully turned.  He handed Ecthelion a drying cloth. 

Ecthelion paused.  “Everything,” he answered eventually, now having resigned himself to Glorfindel’s constant presence.  At least he was nice to look at.  “Your question should be rather, what _don’t_ I have to prove.”

“I do not understand,” Glorfindel admitted.

Ecthelion shook his head.  “Of course you don’t,” he muttered.  He stopped toweling his hair for a moment, then made a decision.   “Turn around,” he said.

Glorfindel, perhaps expecting that Ecthelion had dressed by now, did so.  His face immediately flushed and he whirled back to face the trees.  “You are not dressed!” he said, scandalized.

Ecthelion rolled his eyes.  “Glorfindel,” he said firmly.  “I am not your maiden aunt.  Turn back around.”

“But—”

Ecthelion grabbed his shoulder and wrenched Glorfindel to face him.  He stepped back a few paces.  “Look at me,” he said.

Unable to help himself, Glorfindel looked.

“What do you see?” Ecthelion asked, his voice soft.

“I—” Glorfindel swallowed.  “I see a—a being.  Fair of face.”

Ecthelion snorted.  “Go on.  Be honest.”

“Your—shoulders are broad.”

“Yes.”

“Your arms are strong.  Your—” Glorfindel’s breath hitched.  “Your breasts are small.”

“My mother despaired,” Ecthelion said matter-of-factly.  “I did not.”

Glorfindel stepped closer.  “Your stomach is not soft.  Your hips are narrow.”

“No,” Ecthelion said.  “And yes.”

Glorfindel looked down.  “You—”

“I have not bled since the ice,” Ecthelion said, and though his words were strong, there was a tremor of vulnerability at the corner of his mouth.  “Even in that, I am unnatural.  So you see, Glorfindel, what I have to prove?  Barely female, not quite male—I must carve a place wherever I best fit.”  He lifted his gaze to Glorfindel’s.  “How could you understand?  The Valar made no such mistakes when you were born.” 

Glorfindel stood close enough to touch him now.  “I am sorry,” he said.

Ecthelion barked out a harsh laugh, pushing wet black hair out of his face.  “I am sorry too.”

“No,” Glorfindel said.  “I am sorry, that you must think of yourself in such a way.  As a mistake.”

Ecthelion froze. 

Glofindel took one final step.  “May I kiss you?”

Ecthelion shuddered.  He could smell Glorfindel’s musk clearly now, overlain with the scent of leather and campfires.  His legs felt weak.  “You would want to kiss—to kiss one such as me?”

“Yes,” Glorfindel said.

“Unnatural, like me?”

“Not unnatural,” Glorfindel breathed, his fingers curling around Ecthelion’s wrists.  “Just different.”

“Then . . .” Ecthelion’s voice failed him.  “Please,” he whispered.

And then Glorfindel’s lips were upon his, his breath mingling with Ecthelion’s own.  Ecthelion could not help gripping Glorfindel about the forearms, his hands coming up of their own accord.  His fingers tingled, his heart beat wildly, and his still naked body felt both hot and cold at once.  He could not stop himself pressing against Glorfindel’s clothed form, the cotton and leather brushing softly against his skin.  Glorfindel’s hands stroked his back, his hair, and they were still kissing and there was something, something building just below his belly—

Ecthelion broke away, gasping.  He willed his heart to slow, his breath to calm.  He thought about all the ways this could possibly go wrong, the humiliations he might suffer.

“Ecthelion?”  Glorfindel looked uncharacteristically hesitant.  He worried his lower lip. 

Ecthelion swallowed.  The heated feeling had not gone away.  Rather, like a dog in response to its master, it only grew at the sound of Glorfindel’s voice.  He pushed his fears aside.  Tonight there was only the moon, the stars, and Glorfindel.  And Glorfindel was aroused, wanting, lustful for him. _Him._

Really, he would be a fool not to take this chance.  No matter the consequences.

Ecthelion gathered his courage.  “Again,” he murmured.  “Kiss me again.”

And Glorfindel gladly obliged.

Later, in Ecthelion’s tent, Glorfindel looked at him, propped up on his elbows between Ecthelion’s thighs.  Lantern light flickered over fine cheekbones and his generous mouth.  “I have trysted with warriors and with maidens,” he said.  “But I have never lain with one such as you, Ecthelion.”

Startled, an angry flush began to creep up on Ecthelion’s cheeks.  “If all you wish is to boast of bedding me, Fin, then this will go no further!” he said.  He sat up.  “I will not be such a conquest for you.”  He attempted to stand as well, but Glorfindel placed his hand on his arm, staying him.

“No, you misunderstand me,” he said urgently.  “I view you as you, ‘Thel.  The best of both.  The best of anything.  The fairest of face and of heart—”

“Pretty words,” Ecthelion said dryly, but he stayed where he was.  “What do you really want from this, Fin?  Tell me now, what do you really want from me?”

Glorfindel bit his lip.  “You,” he said, and Ecthelion shuddered at the naked honesty in it.  “There is only one of you,” Glorfindel said.  He paused.  “And I want no other.  Have wanted no other.”

Ecthelion stared at him.  “You mean that?”

“I do not lie!” Glorfindel snapped.  “Why do you doubt me so?”

Ecthelion held up his hands, placatingly.  “I did not say that you do,” he said.  His eyes were thoughtful as he looked down at Glorfindel.  “Forgive me, I cannot help but doubt.  None have ever wanted me before.”

“Maybe none who were so brave as to approach you,” Glorfindel grumbled, but his ire was gone as quickly as it had appeared.  He sighed.  “I want no other,” he repeated.  “I will have no other.  Doubt me if you like, but it is the truth.”  He looked up at Ecthelion and smiled a smile of such surpassing sweetness that Ecthelion’s breath caught in his throat.  “I heard your music and watched you in battle and you are beyond compare, Ecthelion.  I care not for the whisperings of others.  There is only one of you, and I shall not settle for less.”

Ecthelion swallowed.  “There is only one of me,” he agreed, not without some bitterness.  Then his eyes flashed.  “And you will have no other.”

And for many years it was so.

But the lives of the Eldar are too long not to suffer sorrow, and before the age had passed, their fair city of Gondolin, which they had built with their own hands and protected with their own blood, fell.

And Ecthelion, in the chaos of battle, having lost a shield to one balrog and the use of his sword arm to another, found but one option as he faced Gothmog, knowing himself to be the only being to stand between Tuor and Morgoth’s captain. 

He paused only momentarily to mutter a wry, “Well, my mother always did say I was hardheaded,” to his own disbelieving warriors,” before driving the spike of his helmet into Gothmog’s belly, his momentum enough to crash them both into his own fountain.

And as cold as death was, he did not regret.

In death, he floated with nothing but gray memories to keep him company.  He wondered vaguely how Glorfindel had fared, and if he still loved him.  He wondered at the fate of his people.

And then one day, he walked with Mandos. 

The dead cannot keep track of time, and so Ecthelion did not know precisely when Námo first posed to him the question: “You served your king well and with honor.  Many years have passed since your death.  Do you wish to be reborn?”

And Ecthelion answered: “As a soul, I am bound by no body.  No, Lord Námo.  I do not yet wish to be reborn.”

So Námo left him to think.

But soon enough, the Vala returned.  “Glorfindel, your lover, has been returned, under the promise that he must protect the last of Eärendil’s line.  Would you like to be reborn?”

And Ecthelion replied again, “My lover had nothing to fear from re-embodiment.  But I will not again have my soul stuck into a body that does not fit.  I will not give up my freedom.”

Somewhat disgruntled at having been refused for a second time, Námo left.

Then Varda came. 

“Glorfindel petitions us nightly for your release,” she told Ecthelion, who found himself with form enough that he might pace beside her down Námo’s halls.  “He misses you.”

“He is still on Arda,” Ecthelion said, though he was uncertain.  “I cannot join him there.”

Vardo shook her head.  “No more,” she said.  “The last of the Eldar have come West.”  She halted and turned to face him.  “Ecthelion,” she said.  “Your time in the Halls is over.”

And Ecthelion knew that there was nothing he could do to gainsay her.

“Will I—will I remember?” he asked, voice hesitant. 

She paused.  “Do you wish to?”

“Yes,” Ecthelion admitted. 

“Then you will,” Varda said simply.

“And—“ Ecthelion said desperately, for he could already feel his body becoming more solid.  “Will I—no, must I be the same?  Physically?”

Again, Varda paused.  “Do you wish to be?”

Ecthelion bowed his head.  “You know what I wish, Lady.”

Varda gave a small, sad smile.  “I know you often blamed us for your fate, Ecthelion,” she said.  “But only the One has control over your fëa and its physical form.  I cannot say how you will be again in life.”

Ecthelion closed his eyes.  “Glorfindel is waiting?” he whispered.

“Glorfindel is waiting,” Varda confirmed. 

Ecthelion opened his eyes.  “Then come what may, I am ready.”

 


End file.
